


Jailhouse Rock

by tilla123



Series: Wedding Bell Blues [2]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2020-01-25 19:44:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18581329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tilla123/pseuds/tilla123
Summary: A somewhat larger bump on the road to Romance





	Jailhouse Rock

**Author's Note:**

> Standard disclaimers apply. The boys still aren’t mine and hope is fading fast. They belong to the folks at Rysher and Mr. Panzer and Mr. Davis, for a while at least. We’ll see what happens at the end of the season. If they become free agents, I’m putting in a bid. For now, I’m merely borrowing them and will return them unharmed when I’m through. Sorry, guys, there is still no explicit sex to be found - just some very mild m/m implications. Whatever there is here that is more than implication, I owe to Maygra for her unflagging devotion to detail and the shining example she has provided in the writing of this stuff. I can only apologize that my lessons are taking so long to actually bear fruit.  
> Many thanks are offered up on the altar of proper English grammar and coherency to my betas Andie P, Juanita, Sandi, Olympia and Maygra. Without them this story would make even less sense than it does.

The apartment was cold and dark and empty of life. Madame de Lancie stared about her, disconsolate. The young man who had been her neighbor - and tenant - for so many months was gone. The most unusual furniture remained, which gave Madame some hope he might yet return but that hope was not enough. He - and his plants and the tropical fish - had been gone for some days now, vanished like mist in the morning sun, and no word of how he and his Scotsman were getting along. No word, either, of where her cher Adam now dwelt, unless the charming Mrs. MacLeod could be believed and knowing the young man as she believed she did, that was most unlikely. Madame Amanda had arrived to fetch Monsieur Duncan’s things from whence he had left them the last time he had ‘spent the evening’ in cher Adam’s company. (Although why the man could not come and get them himself Madame found it impossible to imagine. Surely Le Petit had explained to the great hulking brute how very necessary it had been that she concuss his stupid Scottish head.) The young woman had stated, most emphatically, the two of them were living on a barge on the water. This was patently impossible as it was well known to Madame that cher Adam hated the water, loathed it passionately in fact. Perhaps the man had kidnapped him?  
Madame shuddered still at the sight that had greeted her when she had stepped into the young man’s apartment that evening. So unnerved had she been at the man’s attempt to ravish poor Adam she had not spared much thought for her neighbor’s tender feelings before smashing his best vase over the fiend’s head. Adam had been very nearly hysterical thinking she had killed his suitor, but the cold compress and the smelling salts had revived the man. And now, the monster had spirited poor dear trusting Adam away. She could only hope the child had come to no harm at the hands of the most reprehensible Monsieur MacLeod.  
She had read the newspaper reports of young men seduced, abducted and then abandoned by wealthy perverts; she had read, too, the case histories of such young men and the felons who kept them. Jeanette was studying psychology at the universite and Madame did not want young Adam to be one of her daughter’s first patients. That young man had a future if only he could be kept safe, virtue and honor intact, long enough for her and the board de la bibliotheque to assure it. Or, long enough for her to see him properly established in a more permanent residence - and relationship - of his own. She longed to see him wed - the gender of the spouse was of no particular importance so long as Adam’s chosen treated him properly - and lavished him with affection and presents. She would miss him, true, but his future must come first. She could always arrange to visit him as she did her own children - Adam would not mind.  
Perhaps, the constabulary might be of assistance? She had connections there; her cousin, Paul, was a Chief Inspector and his wife, Celeste, a forensic specialist. Madame shuddered at the implications in that. She would file a missing person’s report with them in the morning and they could search the man’s boat. If Adam were found, unharmed, there would, then, be no need for further action. If, however, it were as she suspected and Le Petit was being held against his will, the gendarmes could affect a rescue. It was devoutly to be hoped the rescue could take place before the evil one made a ‘slave of passion’ of her young neighbor. She had no doubt that is what the man intended - to debauch young Adam and leave him defenseless against the wiles of others such as himself.

The little bell above the shop door tinkled merrily announcing, perhaps, a paying customer. Och, but the old man was clever. Duncan grinned appreciatively as he glanced around the gallery one more time. Methos had taken several days of unpaid leave from his work at the library to help prepare for the gallery’s opening and the results had been all that the Highlander could have hoped for and more. The old man certainly had an eye for how best to display rare objets d’art and priceless antiquities, including himself, as Duncan could attest from first-hand experience. His heart pounded a little faster as he smiled again remembering this morning’s ‘display’ and he felt a sudden urge to hurry back to the barge for an early luncheon with Methos as the main course.  
Now, with the possibility of actual clientele in sight, he put his libido on hold, adjusted himself suitably and strode forth heroically, as usual, from the gallery’s storeroom. The couple just entering the shop did not look like collectors, but as the Highlander knew all too well, looks could be deceiving. "Monsieur MacLeod," the tall, gray-haired gentleman said in a tone that left no doubt in MacLeod’s mind whatsoever this was not a social call.  
"Oui," he said genially, extending his hand only to have it and its twin clasped firmly in steel bracelets.  
"I am Chief Inspector Paul Gillette of the Surete. This is my associate, Junior Inspector de la Salle." The young woman inclined her head politely as her superior continued. "We are investigating, monsieur, the disappearance of one, Adam Pierson." Duncan frowned. "You are acquainted with Monsieur Pierson?" The Highlander nodded. Adam? Disappeared? Since this morning? "When did you last see the young man, monsieur?"  
He thought back. "This morning, Inspector," he answered cautiously.  
"And where was this?" The Inspector’s colleague was scribbling furiously in her little black notebook and Duncan stole a peek.  
"On my barge - our barge. He lives with me."  
The Inspector frowned. His cousin, Genevieve, had said the man might claim such a thing. She had also stated most emphatically that Adam would never go near the water - the boy loathed the sea and had said more than once the motion and smell of the river made him sick. There was only one thing to do. "It is with regret, monsieur, I must place you under arrest for the forcible abduction of Monsieur Adam Pierson."  
Duncan gaped. Abduction? Forcible? Who could possibly have set the police on him for merely asking Methos to move in? A thought, most unwelcome, began to buzz around in his head. Adam had not closed up the apartment nor had he removed the most personal of his belongings when he had vacated the rooms. He had gathered up only the most necessary items - including the stupid fish and his plants - thinking to return later and fetch the remainder when the ‘coast’ as it were had cleared. Madame had done this to him. The old woman undoubtedly meant to make him pay for absconding with her tenant. He wondered, irritably, if Methos had forgotten to pay the rent.  
He ground his teeth as the Inspector hustled him out of the shop and into the street, where he was shoved unceremoniously into the back seat of the wagon. The embarrassment was profound. Not in years had he found himself in such a predicament and resentment burned bright within his breast. If ‘Adam’ did not kill the old woman, he certainly would consider it.

Adam Pierson stepped out of the shower, grabbing for one of the big bath towels and sprinted for the door. Who could be pounding this early in the morning? It was barely noon. He flung open the door and froze, staring in consternation. The police? What in the name of all the gods were they doing here?  
"Monsieur MacLeod?" The voice dripped with sarcasm and Adam shook his head, flushing with embarrassment. Caught dishabille again; it was becoming a habit. The gendarme frowned. "Monsieur Pierson?" He nodded dumbly, too shocked to speak. Who or what had brought the local constabulary beating down MacLeod’s door this time? An unnerving thought flitted across his mind. Surely Madame would not have sent them to search for him here? Or would she? Dear gods, would they never be free of her interference? How had she gotten Duncan’s address? This and a hundred other questions spun through his consciousness before he could find his voice.  
"What?" The words were more croaked than uttered and he coughed, trying to clear his throat.  
"I am Inspector Henri l’Ancomme of the Surete. This is my associate, Inspector Sargent de la Salle." The younger man inclined his head politely. "We have had a report from Madame Genevieve de Lancie you may have been abducted, monsieur." The man peered into the dimly lit interior of the barge, searching, undoubtedly, for the restraints and implements of torture Adam was sure Madame had insisted they would find. Adam groaned. Abducted? What was the woman thinking? "You have not been abducted, monsieur? You are unharmed?"  
Adam nodded once more and ground his teeth. He hadn’t been abducted in years - centuries, in fact. "Oui, I am quite well, Inspector." Or would be if the Inspector would just leave, preferably before MacLeod arrived. He shuddered at the thought of the Highlander’s reaction to this latest bit of interference from Madame. If Duncan did not kill the woman, he might be tempted to do so.  
The Inspector insisted, as Adam had apparently known he would, on staying until the young man made himself presentable, just to insure the boy’s clothes had not been ‘misplaced’ so as to keep him prisoner. Genevieve de Lancie, in the Inspector’s experience, and this was not inconsiderable, was not a woman given to over-indulgence of the imagination and her insistence the young man who was her neighbor had met with foul play had been taken most seriously by the local police. The fact she was a most generous supporter of the Police Officers’ Widows and Orphans Fund had not escaped their notice either. Nor had her familial ties to one-third the force been without weight in their decision to take action.  
Adam hemmed and hawed and struggled into a pair of faded blue jeans. He tried to explain that very nearly every other piece of clothing he owned was in the laundry, but the Inspector and his associate would not leave. Not until they had determined exactly what Monsieur MacLeod’s intentions were toward his young ‘guest’. The Inspector would wait until the despicable and depraved Scotsman arrived home - if Gillette had not found him at his shop to arrest him - and question him. Then, if his suspicions proved correct and the answers unsatisfactory, he would take the young man into protective custody - before MacLeod had had the opportunity to thoroughly debauch him. Madame had been most vehement on that point. He prayed fervently he was not already too late.  
The Inspector sat, most comfortably in the big armchair beside the fire while his colleague paced the floor. Adam sat facing him; the long graceful hands folded in his lap, feet planted firmly on the floor, the bright hazel eyes flickering nervously from one man to the other. There was none of the casual grace Madame had hinted at in this young man; he was absolutely rigid with terror and mortification. The Scotsman must have threatened him with innumerable horrors to evoke this reaction toward those who had come to him as his benefactors or perhaps he feared the Scot’s reaction should he suspect Adam himself had called for rescue? It was a dilemma and Inspector l’Ancomme did not deal well with such things.  
"Would you like a spot of tea, Inspector? A pastry perhaps?" Adam gazed longingly toward the kitchenette and the Inspector nodded politely. The young man leaped to his feet and hurried into the small cooking area. Water was sloshed into a kettle and placed to boil, while a tray of croissants and macaroons was thrust in front of the two policemen. "Help yourself, gentlemen," the boy said quickly, rushing back to the kitchen to prepare the tea. "Sugar? Cream?" A neat china tea service was placed neatly on the coffee table - sugar and cream set to one side, each cup on its own little saucer with its own silver spoon neatly beside it - then the young man disappeared into the bathroom and the Inspector frowned at his colleague. Surely the stress of these days with the reprehensible Scotsman had driven the child mad. He would have preferred coffee, but the tea was hot and the pastries fresh and quite good. He was astounded - perhaps the boy was French despite his odd name?  
Adam wandered back at last and flopped into a chair, wringing his hands and staring forlornly out the little circular window toward the quay. He glanced at the clock on the desk. It was past 5:00; the evening shadows were beginning to lengthen and Duncan had not come home. He began to worry. There had been no reports on the news of madmen with swords wandering the immediate vicinity, no headless bodies turning up in alleyways and garbage dumpsters. There had been no reported shows of lightening on the weather reports, no wild explosions or unexplained circumstances of ‘arson’. Duncan must be safe. He was merely held late at the Gallery d’Antiquities or perhaps the musee’s curator had taken him to dinner and he had forgotten to call.  
The phone rang and Adam sprang nearly a foot into the air. From a sitting position, this was no mean feat. In a single bound he reached the phone, nearly tearing the little wires from the jack in his haste. "Hello?" The voice on the other end was vaguely familiar, although the tone was not. The deep Scottish burr was nearly unintelligible and Adam caught a hint of something decidedly less than heroic in the wails that echoed over the line. Confusion reigned for several minutes as he listened to the gibberings of the seemingly demented Highlander.  
Until, with one brief phrase, clarity struck. "Madame de Lancie," Duncan practically shrieked over the phone and Adam held the instrument well away from his sensitive ears. The words ‘arrested’ and ‘forcible abduction’ shouldered their way into his consciousness and he found himself grasping blindly at the chair behind the desk only to drop cross-legged onto the floor beside it.  
"Does this mean you’ll be missing dinner, Duncan," he remarked with a hiss of breath. He had had plans for dinner. "I’m sure they’ll feed you. It’s what you may be doing after that has me worried." He eyed the Inspector sitting calmly in the big easy chair - staring fixedly at the cup in his lap as though not to intrude on what was most certainly a private conversation - and hung up.  
"Would you mind if I caught a ride to the station, Inspector?" The Inspector looked up quizzically. The lad was decidedly uneasy and the Inspector raised one eyebrow. "It appears," the young man said, keeping his eyes on the ceiling of the barge as though afraid it might collapse at any instant. "It appears there has been a grave misunderstanding and I must go and set it right." The boy sighed, then smiled a trembling wistful smile and monsieur le Inspector knew suddenly why Madame de Lancie was so protective of the child. For all his appearance of adulthood, he was just a boy - insecure and frightened. No wonder he had been such an easy mark for the dashing Scotsman. The Inspector stifled a growl. His own sons were hardly younger than this young man, and the thought of Louis or Phillipe in the thrall of such a man as MacLeod made his blood boil.

Two days they had kept Duncan withering in a dingy cell, subjected to who knew what horrors, while they forced both the Highlander and Adam to repeat their stories. Two days they had kept Adam wading through oceans of red tape while they cross-referenced every syllable and punctuation mark. Adam shivered delicately. He had spent time in prison; he knew what went on in those places and none of it was pleasant. Admittedly, his last such experience had been some time previous and it was to be devoutly hoped circumstances had improved somewhat in the intervening years; but still, it seemed unconscionable to him that Duncan should be kept in confinement so long when the supposed victim refused to press charges.  
And still they refused to release him. They were determined, it seemed, to hold the Highlander until the hearing as an appeasement to a ‘prominent member of the community’ - by which Adam understood someone with a great deal of money and influence was behind this sordid affair.  
At least one of their questioners had gone so far as to suggest Adam see a psychiatrist, hinting he might be suffering some sort of traumatic breakdown as a result of his barbaric treatment. Barbaric treatment indeed, as though Duncan were anything other than the most thoughtful and considerate of lovers. He sniffed. He had a very good idea as to who had put that idea into their heads.

Adam Pierson waltzed into the interrogation room and sniffed disdainfully at the crumpled wads of paper, the cigarette butts overflowing the ashtrays and the cadaverous gentleman in funereal black sitting behind the typewriter pecking away at vowels and consonants in a vain attempt to make sense of a preposterous situation. Duncan sat slumped in his chair - wrists still cuffed together, eyes blurred from lack of sleep and an overdose of caffeine.  
"Pardonne-moi," he said, flinging a sheaf of official-looking documents at the clerk. The sunken eyes peered out from under the bushy gray brows, the thin mouth pursed even more tightly than before as the skeletal cranium bobbed about on a matchstick neck and wisps of gray hair floated cloud-like about the wrinkled face. The clerk picked up the papers gingerly, as though they might be diseased.  
"Qu’est-ce que c’est?" He wagged the papers in Adam’s face, then dropped them onto the table as if they had burned his fingers. It was most unfortunate he dropped them in the middle of an ashtray whose contents were still smoldering. Adam yelped and attempted a desperate but unsuccessful retrieval as his documents burst into flame.  
Duncan peered blearily at his lover. "What are you supposed to be," he queried tremulously, snubbing another tear before it quite rolled down his cheeks. His wrists hurt and his head ached and his fellow prisoners had not been over friendly either, at least not in any way he might have liked. They had gazed at him with rude and hungry eyes and he had gotten the uncomfortable impression Methos had known exactly what he was talking about when he said it was what Duncan would be doing after dinner that worried him. What Duncan had been doing was trading insults with half-a-dozen fellow inmates, some of whom had volunteered to help him practice a little Greco-Roman wrestling in the original attire. Duncan had smiled sweetly and told them he already had a coach - one who’d been there and done that.  
"I’m your lawyer," Adam hissed, sucking on his burnt fingers. "At least for the moment. I think Ichabod Crane there is in line for the part of your undertaker though." He nodded briefly toward the gaunt gentleman crouched over his typewriter undoubtedly transcribing every word they spoke.  
"What?" MacLeod moaned. "Again? Why can’t you be my doctor and explain I have a pre-existing condition which makes it imperative they release me at once?"  
Adam grinned. "We can play doctor and patient when we get home, MacLeod. I’ll give you a thorough going-over, never fear." Mac groaned and squirmed in his seat. "Your hearing is day after tomorrow, love," Adam continued, still sucking on his fingers. "I shall try to reconstruct those documents, but it may be a trifle difficult." He glared at the clerk, spun on his heel, greatcoat flying like the wings of some gigantic bird, and made as if to exit. Duncan groaned again and Adam turned back with a smile. "Will you miss me, love?" He gave MacLeod a quick peck on the cheek, anything else would be singularly inappropriate under the circumstances, and eyed the clerk speculatively. He sauntered over to where the man was hunched at the little desk, still tapping the keyboard of the ancient typewriter. Craning his neck only slightly enabled him to view most of the contents of the papers spilling across the desk. He tapped his chin with one slender finger, contemplating the reams of paper before him. Perhaps they might come in handy during the hearing? "I shall want an accurate transcript, if you don’t mind," he said in his most officious tones - the ones usually reserved for summation to the jury. "To be sent to this address, this afternoon." He flung down a slip of paper with the berth number for the barge and sailed out of the room.

"You are distraught cher," Madame de Lancie argued as Adam tossed more books into the satchel he had carted over to the apartment. Why would the boy not listen? Surely he could see it was all for his protection she had sent the police to arrest the reprehensible Scotsman?  
"I am furious," he reiterated, then collapsed on the worn sofa with what sounded like a sob. Madame sank down beside him, stroking the dark hair and patting his back. He glared at her. "How could you, Madame?" The tears stood in the hazel eyes, making them appear even larger and more luminous and the fine mouth trembled charmingly. She was on the verge of tears herself to see him so forlorn. Truly, she had had no idea he felt so strongly about the Scotsman.  
"Please, mon petit," she begged. "You must think about what you are doing. He is a married man. I have met the lovely Mrs. MacLeod and she insists this is only a temporary aberration, a momentary lapse." She cringed at the word. To insinuate that dearest Adam was an aberration was unthinkable, but that is what the woman had said. "It is, for him, a liaison de convenience." She paused, unwilling almost to impart the entire story. Poor Adam would be devastated to learn how the man had been playing with him. "He has done this before, petit, many times." There, the truth was out. Better Adam to be hurt now, when he might still recover, than wait until the man broke his heart at a later date.  
"I beg your pardon?" He sat up a little straighter, his tone as chill as the icicles hanging from the ledge outside the window. "Surely you are mistaken, Madame."  
Madame sighed gustily. C’est difficile. C’est impossible. The young were so naive. She should have taken the woman’s number; perhaps that would have served to convince her dear young neighbor of the seriousness of his plight. "Non, petit," she repeated. "Madame Amanda, assured me he plays such games frequently. He is most depraved, cher. He seduces young innocents such as yourself and abandons them, leaving them easy prey for others." Adam stared stonily into space and she knew she would have to reveal the rest as well. The young woman had been most explicit about her ex-husband’s habits. "In fact," she paused for emphasis, then continued breathlessly. "She is the third to wed your MacLeod in the last seven years alone and he has taken many lovers even since the marriage."  
Methos blinked. Amanda had certainly outdone herself this time. What had she been thinking to blacken poor Duncan’s name so? It made no difference MacLeod had asked her to play the part; she hadn’t needed to go quite so overboard at it. He stared at Madame de Lancie. She seemed sober enough, but he needed a drink - something a good deal stronger than beer and that just for starters. "Madame," he said carefully, rising to fetch a bottle from the kitchen. "I think we need to talk."

Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod sat slumped in his cell, hands clasped tightly before him. Three days growth of untidy beard adorned the dark and smoldering visage; his hair was matted and unkempt, his clothes repugnant even to himself. His fingernails had been bitten to the quick. He had not slept a wink in nearly twenty-four hours; not one minute of real rest had he had since Methos had swept out of that interrogation room like some gigantic osprey, coat tails flying in the breeze of his passing. Every time he shut his eyes, that face haunted him. Methos had looked nearly as bad as Duncan felt and though the Old Man had tried to make light of it, Duncan knew he was worried. And if Methos was worried, what then should Duncan be if not more so?  
For the last twenty-four hours he had been, more-or-less, alone. His neighbors in the adjoining cells had either been released or transferred to other quarters. How they might have been let go and him left sitting here to rot escaped him entirely, but so far no one had been by of whom he might ask questions. It was of some little interest to him that no one had been by at all.  
A thrum of Presence brought him surging unsteadily to his feet, blinking wearily in the weak light. Gradually, his eyes focused on the door of his cell and he blinked again. The diet he’d been kept on must be playing havoc with his mental faculties for he was sure he spied his lover leaning casually against the bars, holding a large wicker hamper in one hand and a gaily colored quilt in the other.  
"Could you please hurry," Adam begged politely. "This is really frightfully heavy and I’d appreciate it a great deal if I could get in there and put it down." The guard turned the key in the heavy lock and swung open the door. Adam flashed a dazzling smile, nodded politely and slipped lightly within. "You don’t have to stay," the slender Immortal urged. "I’ll be fine, really." The guard nodded curtly, then turned and left the corridor, flipping a little switch by the door as he did so. "Hello, love," Methos said brightly, dropping both quilt and hamper beside the cot MacLeod had so recently vacated and divesting himself of the long black overcoat that was his near-constant companion in public.  
"What’s this, Meth er Adam?" Duncan queried, pawing hungrily through the contents of the hamper. Adam slapped his hands.  
"I can see what’s important to you, MacLeod," he said sternly. "But surely you can wait a few moments." Duncan was not at all sure that he could wait. For the last three days he had subsisted entirely on a particularly tasteless mash for breakfast, an equally unpalatable gruel for supper and a completely unappetizing casserole of unknown origin and undecipherable content for luncheon. His stomach rumbled ominously and Adam glared, squelching momentarily the guilt he felt at his lover’s haggard appearance. "Well," he huffed, spreading the quilt over the cot and sinking gracefully down upon it. "I suppose we really should see what Madame has packed, shouldn’t we?"  
Duncan pulled back. "Madame packed this?" Adam nodded, hefting the basket up beside him. "Are ye sure it’s nae been poisoned, Adam?" He looked ‘round at the small cell, pointedly avoiding his lover’s eyes. "It’s for a certain she’s nae over-fond of me, man, but how does she feel about you?" His eyes locked on the wicker container and he licked his lips hungrily, then lunged for the basket again and very nearly sent his partner flying in his haste. Poisoned or no, it certainly smelled good and if he died, they’d have to release him - even if only to the morgue. He wondered morosely if Methos would have much difficulty over his ‘death’. The answer was not long in coming.  
Raising his eyes to his lover’s face, he saw there an expression he had never before seen directed toward him. The hazel eyes had gone cold and hard as agates, the fine mouth pulled thin and tight. "Why don’t I just leave you and the basket alone and go on home," Adam suggested in a voice that dropped the temperature in the room to near freezing. The slender Immortal stood and picked up his coat. "I hope the two of you will be very happy together, Mac." One elegant hand lingered briefly over the picnic luncheon he’d brought and Duncan gulped, remembering those hands on him just three days previous - three long and lonely days. Those hands had left trails of fire on his skin and memories etched in his brain that would last as long as he lived. Which, if his lover’s current expression was any indication, might not be as long as he would have liked. He gulped, wondering if Methos had brought his sword with him.  
"Adam, wait," he wailed, flinging himself at the old Immortal and clutching him tightly to his breast. "Ye cannae go now!" Adam attempted vainly to shake loose, but MacLeod hung on like a rabid bulldog.  
"Get a grip, MacLeod," he hissed, looking around for the guard. The police never seemed to be about when you wanted them. Which was probably just as well since the current exhibition would probably get them both arrested. MacLeod was patting him down like a suspect in an armed robbery and Methos had all he could do to keep the Highlander’s hands from wandering any further.  
"Thanks, but I’ve got one," Mac said and started to giggle. His lover’s eyes narrowed.  
"Have you been drinking, MacLeod," he asked sniffing delicately and wishing he hadn’t. He couldn’t believe his nose though it had never failed him before. He dragged MacLeod over to the tiny sink and turned on the tap. "Let’s get you cleaned up, Mac," he suggested pointedly, dropping his coat once more and making quick work of the buttons on the Highlander’s shirt. He pulled the garment off the broad shoulders. Duncan grinned lecherously as he surrendered his trousers as well. "Don’t get your hopes up, MacLeod," Adam warned. "Let’s see if we can get rid of the stench first, shall we?"

"Oh, aye, Adam," MacLeod crooned, as Methos finished washing the grime from his body. Clean, he felt deliciously clean albeit a trifle scraped and bruised as well and it was all due to his lover, who was not behaving loving in the least right now. Rather, the man was treating him, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, like a recalcitrant schoolboy. He’d shoved and bullied him about, not caring in the least how cold the water had been or how rough the cloth. The old man hadn’t breathed once in the entire time, or not so anyone would notice, and looked about to faint now. From lack of oxygen, Duncan wondered, or from thwarted passion?  
His own passion felt thwarted as well and he resolved to remedy the situation at first opportunity - which looked to be right . .about . .now. He lunged, grabbing his lover around his slender waist and tossing him bodily onto the cot. Methos stifled a giggle and struggled vainly, using not quite all his considerable strength to push at the larger man until MacLeod gripped both wrists and forced them up above his head.  
"Now, Adam," he growled, laying a wet kiss on his partner’s nose, then another on the pale brow. "You were saying?" He trailed more kisses along his lover’s cheek, swirling his tongue around one shell-like ear and down the slender throat, using his teeth to pull the sweater down so he could nip and lick at the sharp collarbone jutting up under the fair skin. Adam twitched experimentally and the Highlander groaned - sparks shooting straight to his groin. It had been way too long.  
He shifted - holding both Methos’ wrists in one hand while he used the other to push the sweater up exposing more of that pale soft skin. For a few moments, he contented himself with tweaking first one rose-colored nipple then another until both had risen to hard tight nubs. But he ached so and each little moan, each wiggle of the narrow hips beneath him sent jolts of electricity through him until he felt like screaming. He moved one knee, pushing between his partner’s thighs, and fumbled with the buttons on the tight denims. God, would they never come undone?  
"Damn, Adam," he moaned. "Why d’ye have to wear button-fly Levi’s? Why can ye not use a zipper like a normal man?"  
Methos frowned - concentrating. "I think, dahling, it’s rather because buttons are ever so much easier to replace than zippers." He fluttered those incredible lashes and Duncan felt his heart rate speed up again. "Yes, I do believe that’s the reason. Why?"  
"What’s that to do with anything? What does it matter how easy it is to replace the fastener, Adam? It’s damned hard to get these undone one-handed you know." Duncan struggled a bit more, groaning in frustration.  
Methos bit his lip. "Well, if you’d stop ripping the teeth out of the zippers every time you got a wee bit of an edge on, I wouldn’t have to keep replacing ‘em now would I?"  
Duncan made a soft whimpering sound and dropped his head down on the other man’s shoulder. "I am going to die here, Adam, and you’re worried about your wardrobe."  
"Monsieur!" A voice was raised in shock and the cell door squealed like a pig stuck in a fence as it slid open. Duncan froze where he lay, hands still grasping the recalcitrant buttons. "Que’est-ce que c-est, monsieur?" The Scot’s face flamed as he stared deep into his lover’s eyes. A young man - quite obviously a novice at this sort of thing - tapped the Highlander on the shoulder as his partner led their latest acquisition down the aisle where he would not have to view the depraved scene currently being enacted. "Monsieur, qu’est-ce qu’il passe ici?"  
"It’s all right, officer," Adam said smoothly. "He just tripped while I was giving him a wash-up. We’ll be up and about in a moment."  
He pushed gently at MacLeod’s shoulders and the Highlander shifted slightly, groaning. "No, we won’t," he muttered and Adam got more than a hint as to what exactly was the problem as something twitched and pulsed between his denim-clad thighs.  
"Oh," Adam grunted sliding out from under the Scot’s heavy weight and easing his friend back down on the cot. "I guess you won’t at that." MacLeod groaned again.  
"Should I call for a doctor, monsieur," the young officer inquired politely. "Is he ill?"  
Adam shook his head. "No. I’m sure it’s just a touch of stomach cramp. He’ll be fine in a couple of hours." Mac groaned more loudly and doubled over clutching at himself.  
"You are sure, monsieur? He seems very ill."  
"Non!" Adam snapped. "Non," he repeated more quietly. "He’ll be quite all right. I’ll stay with him a while just to be sure."  
He rubbed Mac’s back gently and the gendarme nodded. "Very well, monsieur. We will monitor more closely the video, however, and you must call out if you require assistance."  
Adam nodded his thanks and stared at the camera high on the wall just opposite the cell as the young officer left followed by his partner, the door clanging shut behind him. Loud shrieks from the new tenant echoed through the hallway and Mac moaned twisting over and moving Adam’s hand a bit lower. "I’m damned if I’m gonna whack off again tonight, Adam," he growled. "You’ve got to do something!" Adam moaned softly as his hand stroked between Mac’s legs. "Adam," Mac groaned. "You’ve got to get me out of here. This is killing me!"  
"It’s not bloody doing me a great deal of good either, MacLeod," Adam retorted acidly. "But you don’t hear me complaining do you?" He moved slightly to block the camera’s view of the action.  
Mac shook his head. "No," he said thrusting into Adam’s hand. "But why should you complain? I’m the one who’s locked up here and you’re free to date." He could’ve bitten his tongue in the next instant but it was too late then to repent.  
Adam’s talented hands ceased their ministrations and the patrician nostrils flared. Guilt hammered at the Highlander as the marvelous eyes narrowed and the fine lips pressed tightly together. "Really, MacLeod? I’d never have thought of that." Adam was restraining himself almost too well, Mac thought uneasily. There’d not been so much as a twitch in the direction of the Highlander’s throat. The old man sat absolutely still for a moment while the poisonous words lay like adders between them.  
Duncan coughed and reached for one long-fingered hand. "Adam," he began hesitantly.  
Adam jerked back as if burned and rose quickly. How could Mac think such a thing of him? Ever since they’d first met, he’d hardly even looked at another man. Snatching up their picnic and the quilt with one hand and his coat with the other, he spun on his heel and strode swiftly for the cell door. "Hello!" he called loudly, slamming his hand against the bars. "I’m ready to leave now!" The gendarme rushed in to open the door and Adam whirled out with never a backward glance.  
<< To be continued - maybe>>


End file.
